THE 

PEASANT'S LYRE: 

A COLLECTION 
or 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

BT 

GEORGE SCROGGIB, 

STRICHEN. 




Wb«» ant tma *he f«rd^a Adam di<i*K«* 
To ejim bit krcad by the awtrat of bia,bro<r, 
IIJ« Qod fma on hl^h did • b]e<4mc beatow 
Oa Um fniUa of bU labour ia boldiag tb« pleafk. 



ABERDEEN: 
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BENNETT, 

42, OlSTLC 8TRXSC. 

1857. 



1^1 



I'P ill' t^±qy 




^^^^f^^^idu^ - 






\x 



TO THE READER. 



The following pages are dedicated to the sons 
of toil, to which class the author belongs. 
Written in their ov^ hcmely language, illus- 
trating scenes in their every-day life, and 
identified with their hopes and their fears 
and their sympathies, he sincerely trusts 
that they will be duly appreciated; for in 
presenting the Work to the public generally, 
the author has little expectation of securing 
the patronage of the learned and the great in 
the land. Encouraged, however, by the conde- 
scension of some, and the kindness of others, 
in placing their names on his Subscription 
List, he has been erboldened to launch his 
little bark upon the sea of life; and he con- 
fidently hopes that, although imperfect in 
its style and in its execution, the homely 
strains of "The Peasant's Lyre" will always 
meet a welcome at the peasant's fireside. 



The text of "The Peasarrt's Lyre" 

...was given to Dwight Fay Rettie (b.l930) of Arling- 
ton, Virginia, by the Aberdeen Public Library in 
Aberdeen, Scotland. Dwight is the son of James Cardno 
[1904-69] and Lois Chloey Morris Rettie (b.l908), both 
bom in Fossil, Oregon. 

Research on sometime poet George Scroggie has not yet 
turned up very much, but Lois has infonnation that by 
recent marriage, at least, the Retties and the Scroggies 
are related. 

Of special interest cmong these poems is "Farewell to 
Tarwathie," because Tarwathie is the name of the long 
time family fann and the birthplace of Dwight's grand- 
mother Jane Cardno near Strichen, Aberdeenshire. In 1986 
the fami was still hone to a family member, Margaret Jane 
Milne Murray, widow of James Cardno Murray, second cousin 
to Dwight. The fann has, however, been sold to a 
neighbor. 

Scroggie's poem was set to a popular tune of the 
1850's and has been variously recorded, including a 
recent version by singer Judy Collins that includes the 
songs of the Hunpback whale. Dwight used the name 
"TARWATHIE" for his xean-going sailboat in 1978 and 
again in 1984 to name the boat in which he and his wife 
Karen Ross Steed (b.l946) plan to sail around the world. 

The text of the book was re-typed by Dwight, except 
for the cover page and the markings on page 4. Minor 
changes in layout were made; however, spelling and punc- 
tuation are Scroggie's. This binding was done in 1986, 
of which this is copy Number 3 of 3. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

The Young Shepherd 9 

Fran a Fellow-Hirdie, after 1>/enty years' 

separation 10 

In Answer to the above 13 

Fran a Brother 17 

The Answer 20 

To a Fellow-workman, on Tyranny 23 

To a Ccmrade about to put to Sea 25 

Fron a Brother, on receiving a Sheet for 

Subscription 26 

The Answer 28 

Lawrie can never be mine 30 

Lines written on hearing of Lawrie 's Departure . 32 

Lines to my Jessie 34 

The Spring! The Spring! 37 

Address to my Old House 39 

There's a difference of l^n in Society 41 

A Look at the Miseries of the Poor 44 

The Sons of Toil 49 

The War 55 

The Old and the New Year 60 

On the Departure of Fifty-four 64 

A Recitation for a Soiree 67 

A Voice of Sorrow 70 

Farewell to Tarwathie 73 

Farewell 75 

The Anguish of Farewell 77 

To the Author's lather, on the prospect of Death 79 

On the Death of a Child 81 

M/ l^lk shall be with Jesus 83 

A Presentation to the Rev. George Brown .... 86 

The Autunn 87 

On the Fate of Man 89 

Thoughts of suffering Want 90 

To my Liberal Subscribers 92 



THE PEASANT'S LYRE. 



THE YOUNG SHEPHERD. 



At eight ^ars of age I went to the fram'd— 
The place I was bound I canna weel name't. 
But weel do I mind what I got to do- 
To act as a shepherd, without hose or shoe. 

On the hills viiere I hirded there was not a dwellin'- 
The muircock and pheasant aroun' me were yellin', 
While oft times I thocht, wi' the tear in my e'e. 
That the hirdin' o' sheep was a hand thing for me. 

I bein' unable my dog to cannand, 

I dragged him alang wi ' a rope in my han'; 

While my flocks were seekin' a place to their suit, 

Wi' my dog in my han', I wandered about. 

If by chance any time the dog I let go. 
He thocht naething about him the lambs to throw, 
Tho' loudly for him to come back I did call. 
He scattered them here an' there at his wull. 

Afraid to appear then my master before. 
Lest he in a fury should raise up a splore. 
In the lae o' a bush I often sat doun. 
Till darkness enveloped me all roun'. 

B 



10 



I then being unable to hame find my way, 
I sometimes did lie till the licht o' the day. 
While aroun' me in raptures the little lambs played, 
I under the bush lay roll'd in my plaid. 

fortune! how hand, I often did cry. 

Hast thou doomed me at night in the muirlan' to lie; 
While at heme wi ' my mamny my brithers do sleep, 

1 in this cauld muirlan' till momin' must weep. 

But no^ to sheep-hirdin' I'll bid adieu— 
Nae mair yon wild mountains I mean to renew; 
A' ye that ha'e boys, if it be in your power, 
never let them sleep as I've done in the muir. 



FROM A FELUOW-HIRDIE AFTER MNTY 
YEARS' SEPARATION. 

Geordie, Man, I've seen your rhyme. 
They min' v^ vyeel o' days lang syne. 
When I was a hirdin' Bakie's nowt. 
And ye your sheep vyas drivin' out. 

The shepherd-boy I knew richt weel , 
I4ien hirdin' sheep on yonder hill, 

1 think ye' 11 min' vhen this you see. 
On days and years we spent wi' glee. 



11 



Tho' frost and snaw did aft alloy. 
And brake our wontit frien'ly joy; 
At ither times tempestuous rain. 
Few o' our birth would then been fain. 

ITiae days hae slowly slipt awa'. 
And ye anither job to ca'— 
You now must earn your daily breid. 
For to supply the youngster's need. 

But after bein' the shepherd boy. 
Ye earn' to our toun to annoy 
Ms and our honest goodly folks, 
Wi' a' your idle tales and jokes. 

I min' fu' weel vhen it was dark. 
As silent at our brose we sat,— 
The auld guidwife was sittin' near; 
Ony licht for us, it's ye did speer. 

She says, if to my mouth ye cone. 
It's I will tell you v^liere to shun; 
Sane time elapsed, ye took the chance. 
An' boldly thro' the floor did prance. 

Your spoon quite fu' o' good kail brose. 
To clap belov the auld wife's nose; 
Hout, hout, she said, a' weel am seir. 
Ye are a laddie, brave an' queer. 

Then you an' me were comrades dear. 
Could trust each other without fear: 



12 



Both out and in, an' in every place, 
We always met v/i' smiling face. 

I little thocht about that time. 
You'd be a iran to handle rhyme; 
Your "Peasant's Lyre", the other night. 
By chance of it I got a sight. 

The shepherd boy, how pleasant done. 
Its lines my heart did fairly won; 
My blood ran wann in es/ery pore. 
While thinkin' on the days o' yore. 

And to the end I read it through, 
I think I may give praise to you; 
All those who come to read your lines. 
Will after surely be your f Men's. 

I need not trouble you wi' my stuff. 
To you it is not worth a snuff; 
So I will draw into an end. 
To rhyne wi' you I'll no contend. 

An' wish you health and wealth in store. 
And everything that's good galore; 
M/ head is teim, I must ha'e done. 
There's little I'll to rhyme for fun. 

And now my pen I think I'll dry, 
1^ ink and all I will set by. 
And if you think it worth your v\hile, 
A line or twa send to Whitehill. 



13 



To Johnny Hunter your auld frien', 
I would not like that we had deen; 
Our correspondence has been few. 
But after this we will renew. 

If ye sen' o'er a twa-three lines, 
O'scribble scrabble, or but signs. 
Our auld acquaintenance may turn new. 
If Geordie be not in the lue. 

Another verse and I have done, 
I^ rhymin' course is fairly run. 
And still the langer is the blunter. 
So I ranain your servant. Hunter, 



IN /WSWER TO THE /COVE. 

Inquirin' frien' I hope ye' re weel. 

At least it's what I wish. 
For health's a thing we canna steal. 

Nor buy tho' large o' cash. 

Her precious stream has found a place. 

Within my house at heme,— 
Her gladness smiles upon each face, 

A gift from Canaan's son. 

Your welcome rhyme, how dear to me- 
lt breathes affection's voice 



14 



The days of yore aniles courteously. 
When you and me were boys. 

When you and me were hirdies wee, 

on yonder heathery hill. 
The tempests wild did spoil our glee. 

Our hearts with grief did fill. 

But then our hearts were free frcm care. 

And lightsome as the roe; 
Each prospect seemed so very fair. 

No cause for grief or woe. 

But youth and beauty's blosson fails. 
And leaves behind the thorn; 

The cares of life our boson swells. 
And whispers, man must mourn. 

gloomy prospect here for man. 

If fortune backward turn— 
Although his life is but a span. 

It's long enough to mourn. 

But fortune can afford a smile. 
And some has found it so,~ 

While others of the sons of toil 
Are plunged in want and woe. 

And others under fortune's smile, 
Wi' health and wealth in store,— 

Their happiness and pleasure spoil. 
Still lacking something more. 



15 



But Providence will give to you 
The lot that she thinks fit. 

And I will also get my due~ 
To her we'll then submit. 

Twenty opening springs have fled 
Since we were comrades young. 

And many in their graves are laid. 
That then seemed very strong. 

And we are yet but very young. 

No wrinkle in our broo; 
The hoary hairs have not begun 

To show their ghastly hue. 

But we cannot be always young. 

While years are rolling on; 
Our mDrtal bodies must cone down. 

And mix with those that's gone. 

Dear friend, ye know we came from dust. 

And back we soon must go; 
You also know what waits the just, 

Tho' green grass o'er them grow. 

You know a life that cannot die 

Lives in the fading frame; 
In home remains above the sky. 

Where death has ceased to reign. 

The questions then for you and me. 
Have ws the bargain made 



16 



With him who hang on Calvary's tree. 
For sinners groaned and bled. 

A ransom here is paid for man- 
Can ve its value tell; 

He from his Father's bosom came. 
To save our souls frofn hell. 

0! what induced the Saviour dear 
To leave his Father's throne? 

And thorns on his head to wear. 
Till blood in streams did run? 

He knew the value of our souls. 
And saw then doomed to die; 

With tender love, his yearning bowels, 
'Forbear the blow' did cry. -^^ 

1^ time is up, farewell my friend, 

I mean to say no mDre; 
May blessed Jesus virtue send. 

Our freedom to restore. 

That we in robes of white may meet 

To join yon ramsomed band; 
Where saints and angels sing so sweet 

The anthems of the Lamb. 



17 



FROM A BROTHER. 

I'm now sat dcMi wi ' pen in han'. 
To write some verses if I can. 
But gin it fail me, Geordie man. 

Ye will excuse; 
Though ye can mount Parnassus gran ' 

Whene'er you choose. 

Aye, Geordie lad, I ne'er in time. 
Now saw afore your face or rhyme. 
And yet ye bid me send a line. 

And sign my name; 
Now, if I'm favored by the nine, 

I'll try the same. 

It's rather rash o' me nae doot. 
To try to mount Parnassus suit; 
To you, unknown, that's just aboot 

To print a book. 
But, my friend, I say be mute, 

And fau'ts o'erlook. 

I never heard your name afore, 
Altho' I've passed your very door; 
Aye, man, it's nearly half a score 

0' years since I 
Had m^ny a rig and hearty splore, 

A heart near by. 



18 



But that's awa', and I nae mair 
Can wander out to take the air, 
Down through Artamfond's fields sae fair. 

And stately trees; 
To hear sweet voices whisper there 

Wi' ilka breeze, 

man, I min' on days lang syne. 
When I began to woo the nine; 

When love came first wi' wings sublime, 
1^ heart to steal . 

1 danced wi ' her and rustic rhyme, 

A three-seme reel . 

But now the dance is left by ane. 
The muse nae mair will be befrien', 
Tho' ance she came baith brisk and keen. 

And took my han'. 
To a' the dens sae lovely green, 

Wi' scenery gran'. 
.^ 
She led me out in early Spring, 
To hear the birds a' sweetly sing- 
Made hills and dales and valleys ring 

At ilka turn. 
And saw the flowers wi' dew draps hing. 

Out o'er the burn. 

But, Geondie lad, I'll no conplain. 
Though better days wi' her I've seen. 
Though she has gane— left me alane. 
To prose for life. 



19 



She v\es to me a better frien", 
A lovin' wife. 

Tho' you that's crowned wi mair success. 
And has your works a' in the press. 
Says ye will gi'e my scrawl a place 
Anong you ain. 

loshie! man, I think I scarce 

Can fin the brain. 

And nair than this, I rather think 
When ance you see my hotch-potch clink. 
You'll gi'e your e'e a wee bit wink. 

And say aye, ayel 
We'll gie't a place out o'er the brink. 

It's unco dry. 

l\frien ance you've got your hurry o'er. 
And think ye hae an ora hour. 
Cone down the way to Aberdour, 

And through the glens; 
You'll maybe get chiels half a score. 

To sign their names. 

Mae longer will my musie stay. 
And I maun bid you baith good day; 

1 wish your name may last for aye^ 

While tiriB endures. 
In sitting here I humbly say. 
Sir, truly yours. 



20 

THE ANSWER. 

Dear Friend, I nearly now think shame. 
In ink to dip my rhymin' pen. 
To you a scrawl or two to sen', 

Sae lang neglected. 
Since I got yours, six months have gone. 

If I'm me cheated. 

You'll sympathise wi' me, dear brother. 
And don't begin to raise a bother. 
Though ye had been my very mother, 

I had nae time 
To link so many lines thegether 

As mak' a rhyme. 

Your welcome rhyme is nae forgot. 
Though I've been lang in answehn' o't; 
It lies inside my Sunday's coat, 

l\fithin' my kist; 
And aft its lively lines I quote, 

'Mid gloamin' rist. 

It came to me a welcome sight. 
Upon a pleasant SLrmer night. 
When I wi' toil was wearied quite. 

In makin' hay. 
Its channin' lines did m invite 

To live for aye. 



21 



Afore I got it a' read o'er, 

I found its author passed my door. 

At which I wondered very sore. 

The saucy nickim. 
Its threshold he might venture o'er, 

I'd welcoRB mak'im. 

But for a' this I will excuse, 
I do not mean to you abuse; 
In future ye will not refuse. 

If passin' by. 
To venture in and lend your muse 

If mine is dry. 

For man, she's tumin' something slack,- 
She's scarcely worth to me a plack. 
She almost seems to me to turn her back. 

The nasty swine; 
And leave me rivin' in my tap. 

Without a line. 

Ye said she did not you befrien'. 
If I your lines have not mista'en; 
But if you've got a better brien'. 

Ye needna care. 
I think your musie seemed to mean 

A lassie fair. 

tend her weel wi ' dresses braw. 
And lock her in your amis sma'. 
Lest like the muse she run awa' 
Out o'er the hill. 



22 



And leave you wi' seme babies 3Tia,' 
Her roan to fill. 

To them, nae doot, ye shoes could mak. 

And buy some duddies for their back; 

But still poor things their hearts would brak. 

Dear rtiymin' brother. 
In call in' father bring us back 

Again our mDther. 

But no such thing can ever be. 
While fortune keeps you her e'e; 
May something mDre than I can gie. 

Be still your doom. 
Your body, like a July tree. 

Be still in bloom. 

I couldna gie your rhyme a place. 
As a' my v^rks was in the press; 
But is again I can hae face 

To try another, 
I'll mak your paragraphs address 

As fae a brother. 

And now my frien' I wish you weel , 
Wi' plenty o' good milk and meal; 
May health attend you on the steel , 

In rich supply; 
And rmny a sturdy barefoot chiel , 

Come in your way. 

Again my musie has run off. 

And left me naething nBir but buff. 



23 



Will cause you heartily to laugh. 
When in your cue; 

So here I close my paragraph. 
Your brother true. 



TO A FELLOiH^DRKMAN, ON TYR^WY. 

Dear frien', I hope ye're still in health 

In body and in mind— 
You canna wish nae higher wealth. 

Nor greater comfort find. 

At present I am \/ery wsel , 

1^ wife and children too; 
I hope we'll a' get grace to feel 

To vyhom the praise is due. 

Dear James, when you an' me were met 

To labour for our bried. 
We struggled hard in tyrant's net 

Our hungry weans to feed. 

The voice of tyranny did ring. 

The workers' joy to spoil ~ 
Within subjection still to bring 

The aveaty brows o' toil . 

But tyrants canna steal the joy 
That nature can bestow. 



24 



Nor frcm the husband's heart decoy 
The feel in' part that's due. 

To those for whom his labour tends 

To foster and maintain. 
When day the tyrant's heart does read. 

By yielding nicht her claim. 

A joy is here unknoi^n to gents. 

Whose tyrannizing name 
Through day the sons of toil toments 

In slavery's iron chain. 

But fortune surely will abide 

With faithful sons of poor. 
Though sometimes tossed on hardship's tide. 

We aim a happy shore. 

I also plead the tyrant's cause- 
May goodness him attend. 

And time refonn his hardened laws. 
Ere death his days shall end. 

I now must here dry up my pen, 

My precious time is run. 
May health and happiness attend 

Your wife and babies young. 



25 
7D A COMRADE ABOUT TO PUTID SEA. 

I hope my lines will find you well. 
And under fortune's smile— 

A stranger to the thing that's ill. 
And kept from Satan's wile. 

Sneet health at present I possess. 

And everything that's good- 
Kind fortune's smile on every face. 
And all in friendly mood. 

Can you or me the Giver pay. 

Or can we thankful be 
To Him whose ami is our stay. 

And strength by land and sea. 

I hear again your ship must sail , 
And drawi you froTi your hone; 

Kind fortune sure will suit the gale. 
To bear you safely on. 

The crystal drops from Jeanie's eye, 
]fhY\e standing on the pier. 

Will frcm your bosom crave a sigh. 
As through the surf you steer. 

The rolling billows in the bay 
Will whisper voices sweet. 

When fron the shore she wings her way 
To Greenland's icy sheet. 



26 



But wait in hope, the sinmer's breeze 
Will guide you safe on shore. 

When nature's scenery tells the trees 
To mourn in death no more. 

The forests wild that hang their head 

In winter's deadly hue. 
Shall now extend their boughs in pride. 

The Greenland ships to view. 

Again your ship shall meet the anile 

Of nature's scenery grand. 
And hours of love will care beguile. 

When safely moored to land. 

May health and happiness abide 
With those that's left to mDurn, 

And fortune rule the surging tide. 
Till back the ship return. 



FROM A BROTHER, 
on receiving a sheet for sitecription, 

fat's this now come to my view, 
A paper wi' big print on't— 

Twa lines across on every side. 
For new names to indite on't. 



27 



An' at the held, I view'd wi' speed 
A name that's something rare 

Thus to be viewed, I gazing stood. 
Then saw— "The Peasant's Lyre." 

When I took time to read each line. 
And speer'd what was its neanin'. 

Then I was tauld my brither auld 
Had now begun a rhymin'. 

An' that he'd sent his name in print. 
To see if they'd subscribe it; 

Thinks I, my man, you've tried this plan 
To get the peasants bribit. 

For sair I fear your sense or lear 
Is scarce fit for sic touches, 

Ye'd easier breed yer lively heid 
To scouring drains or ditches. 

But if ye think to mak' it clink, 
I'll not at first mistrust ye— 

I'll sign my name three times the same. 
If that could main assist ye. 

Moreover, too, I'll send it through 
'Mong neebours roun' an' roun'. 

An' bid then sigi on ilka line— 
A lot frae ilka toun. 

So that yer sheet I'll yet complete, 
Weel blacken'd baith the sides o't. 



28 



Wi double signs on single lines— 
A middle draught divides it. 

But, Geordie lad, it mak's me sad 
To think fat I'll say to them, 

Hien they may speer fat kin' o' lear 
Has got the author o' them, 

I canna weel subscribers tell 
That ye 're an ignoramus. 

Nor can I tell that ye're a feel- 
Sic words wid be infamous. 

But I will say to such as may 
Be curious-like to know that. 

That they should try the book to buy. 
An' it will quickly show that. 

So fare-ye-weel ye canty chiel, 
haste ye doon by wi ' them. 

For by my sooth, to tell the truth, 
I'm thinkin' lang to see them. 



THE ANSWER. 

0, Sawney man, yer lines I scan. 
An' do them weel consider— 

It's said by some that ye for fun 
Ha'e sent me sic a chider. 



29 



An' there are some who far do cone. 

Say that ye are a shaver— 
And say beware, and never mair 

Gi'e heed to your palaver. 

But o' bad voice I'll no mak' choice. 

By nae advice or ither, 
Tho' I be feel, I'm just as weel 

To treat ye as a brither. 

So I'll gi'e you a brither's due. 

In answerin' yer letter. 
So weel 's ye ken the best o' men 

Whiles gang frae grace to natur'. 

Ye very weel can tune yer quill 
To speak o' scourin' ditches, 

Nae very far frae Jock Dunbar, 
Wi' a his briends and v/itches. 

Ye also ken the min'd o' men 

In fillin' up a schedule, 
Tho' want o' lear for evemiair 

Keeps Geordie frae a medal . 

But I incline to write a line— 
A sort of scribble-scrabble— 

Lat critics laugh, and nobles scoff 
The dubbie ditcher's fable. 

Sweet virtue's cause can ne'er be fause. 
If richly I can write it— 



30 



^ gray-goose quill wi' ink I'll fill. 
An' forcibly indite it. 

I'll cry't aloud to rich an' proud. 
The poor can also hear it— 

The critic's lash, the xorner's fash, 
I never mair shall fear it. 

So fare-ye-weel , my trusty chief. 

May honesty aye govern 
You step by step, till at yon gate 

A better life you earn. 



UifRlE cm fEVER BE MLfE. 

When night spreads her couch for the weary. 
And sleep every eye does enshrine, 

I muse o'er the channs o' young Lawrie, 
Although he can never be mine. 

His noble appearance and stature 

Does all that's bewitching combine— 

And affection is stamp 'd on each feature,— 
But Lawrie can never be mine. 

Round a forehead of dusky locks waving. 
Do courage and courtesy shine— 

And eye with impression enslaving,— 
But Lawrie can never be mine. 



31 



A breast of enlightened animation 

Bears the heart that's tender and kin', 

A stranger to vile affectation. 
Yet Lawrie can never be mine. 

His voice 'mid the halls of applause 
Outrivals the song of the nine, 

It's as sweet as the syren, yet bauld,— 
But ah, he can never me mine. 

Fortune, aye wayward, designs him 

■file fate of another to join— 
A worthier fair one enshrines him,— 

And Lawrie can never be mine. 

As the oak that so bravely 'mid stonn 
Shields over the twigs of the vine. 

So safe in his amis she'll be borne,— 
And Lawrie can never be mine. 

More sweet than the calm stealthy river 
Glides under the sun's soft decline. 

Through life they will journey together,— 
And Lawrie can never be mine. 

I was blessed when that loved one enbracing- 
I'll trive me no more to repine— 

It is cruel to wish for possessing 
The breast that can never be mine. 

Should his glance cause a sigh to espace me. 
His smile press a tear fron its shrine. 



32 



For this surely Lawrie cannot hate me. 
He'll forgive though he ne'er can be mine. 

For when time in her chariot is wheeling. 
Oft I'll muse on the days o' langsyne. 

And sigh that I cherished the feeling 
That Lawrie could ever be mine. 



llfES WRITTEN ON J€/\RINS CF LAURIE'S 
DEPARTURE. 

And it is true that now I hear. 
That Lawrie' s soon to leave; 

It's waefu' news, alas, how dear. 
That I must such believe. 

who shall cheer the muses' tone 

Beneath yon sacred spi re— 
Hio now shall peal the anthens on 

When worshippers retire. 

Who shall, when SLmrer's shadows veil 

My solitary bower. 
Come v^istling blithely through the vale. 

To cheer an evening hour. 

But why have I such fondness formed 
For one so lately known— 



33 



liiy is the thought in sorrow borne 
That he must soon be gone. 

Is it yon ever-winning sfiiile 
That o'er his features shire. 

Or is't yon eye's resistless will 
That won this heart of mine. 

It cannot be those charnis I know. 

They are another's store- 
Such thoughts can ne'er my boson glow. 
Nor breathe within its core. 

But blame me not although I mourn. 
Yet scarce can tell you why; 

Ah! who can fond affection spurn, 
Tov^ards yon kindly eye. 

So under disappointment's frown. 
His once fond heart has bled; 

And o'er a mutual tale made known. 
He has a tear to shed. 

Yes, kindness, that ctelightful flower. 
He's nursed in early days. 

And sympathy's enchanting bower. 
He's op'd for ithers waes. 

Its sad to part fron such a friend 
In this cauld world of ours. 

Where few a pitying ear will lend. 
When on you fortune low'rs. 



34 



Yet if he must— I will not grieve 
Bat strive ne'er to complain, 

Alas, the fondest friends must leave 
Here not to meet again. 

Then go dear one, and ever may 

Kind fate upon you anile. 
Still heart -wished treasures day by day. 

Your es/ery care beguile. 

May yonder hone above the skies 

Be all our aim to gain, 
Wiere sorrowing friends meet to r^'oice, 

M never part again. 



LINES TO MY JESSIE. 

Oh, Jessie dear, I mind richt wee! 

Wien first your face I saw, 
'Twas on a pleasant afternoon. 

And you seen'd \fery braw. 

But 'twas not your dress that did attract. 

Nor yet my fancy draw. 
Indeed I thought you far too fine 

For m to heed at a'. 

Ye'd mind that nicht a friend o' yours 
Did strict injunctions gi'e. 



That no a^/eethearting vas allowed 
BetvMeen us tva to be. 

Indeed I thotight it very kind 

To vem me so soon, 
But still I thou^t there '^s no fear 

That e're I should you own. 

But strange it is to think upon 
liiat time and chance brought rotnd. 

And we forgot what we were tauld 
Upon that afternoon. 

But surely, lass, I vas to blame. 

For I the sport began. 
And mair it was than e'er I thought, 

That you my heart should gain. 

But, Jessie dear, it cheers me yet, 

l-^en I think on the time 
That you confessed I had your heart. 
And I that you had mine. 

For many a lovely tale since then 
We've had from one another. 

And many a hundred times, fair maid. 
We've joint our lips together. 

It's confort here to me my dear, 

Sanetimes when I'm alone. 
To think upon the pleasant walks 

To v^ich we've often gone. 



36 



I mind on all the spots richt v^el , 

Where we had used to meet. 
We sometimes sat, and sometimes lay. 

And whiles stood on our feet. 

But for to mention all the hours 

For love that we have spent, 
I'm sure my pen it would go dry, 

Ihey've out of number went. 

But, love, I long to see the day 

When I can call you mine. 
And we'll have leisure then to crack. 

On days o' auld langsyne. 

Seme years ha'e passed, love, since the nicht 

You owned that you was mine. 
Below yon twinkling star, whose light 

Is love to me sin 'syne. 

And many a weary foot since then 

Ha'e I wi' pleasure trode. 
But thinkin' still on you, sweet lass. 

Still shorten 'd much the road. 

Tho' at a distance now you are. 

It could not be the way 
Would himnder me frcm coming, dear. 

With you a while to stay. 

So Jessie, dear, do not repine. 
Nor let your heart be grieved. 



37 



For if to me you do prove true. 
You will not be deceived. 

Now, here I gi'e my heart and hand. 

That I am ever thine. 
So all I ask o' you, my love. 

Is that your heart be mine. 



THE SPRING! THE SPRING 

Welcome Spring, I hail thy covering. 
Spread along each grove and plain. 

Adieu! adieu! ye months of showering. 
Fruitful Spring is come again. 

A/^ake ye warblers from your prison. 
Let me hear your minstrel see; 

In losing time you lose your season. 
Soar on high in chann of glee. 

Let not opening rose and daisy 
Hail her welcome all alone. 

But chant ingly your voices raise ye. 
Proclaim aloud that Winter's gone. 

I call you not his loss to mourn 
That he has left our native soil. 

Nor need we long for his return. 
Sweet nature's face again to spoil. 



38 



But let us hail the opening blosscm 
As it moves its death-struck head. 

And take sweet Phoebus to our bosom. 
For Flora's mantle is now spread. 

No more ye forests need ye mourn 
'Neath the tyrant's iron grasp. 

Soothing Spring thy boughs adorn 
Wi' her gentle smile at last. 

No more thy stom-toss'd branches rattle- 
Now they're dressed in robes of green. 

No more the Winter blast they battle. 
Since they meet wi' nature's queen. 

See the sun energing high 

On his long mysterious course. 

Pouring down in rich supply. 
Golden rays each bud to nurse. 

See the dew of early morning 
As upon the flowers it hangs. 

Lovely Spring the earth adorning. 
Soothing a' the Winter's wrangs. 

Old nature dead but now alive. 

Amoving life o'erspreads the earth 

Tliese splendours all their being derive 
From Him who's changeless in His birth, 



39 
ADDRESS TO MY OLD HOUSE, 

Nine years o' precious time have fled 

Since ye became my ha' , 
And various changes have been made 

Since then 'mang great an' sma'. 

The wealthy fanner's left his Ian' 

Higher calling to attend— 
Another has by death been drawn 

To meet his latter end. 

Another has by swindle or fraud 

Accunulated brass 
Now doth on tyrant's throne parade. 

The poor man to harass. 

But I among your seething smoke 
Have languish'd all the while— 

We little added to the stock 
For a' my weary toil. 

Till surmoned in our soveieign's name 

To mak' you void and rid 
0' a' things that to be pertain. 

Babes, kists, and chairs, and bed. 

That so my landlord my have course 

To decorate your wa' 
Wi' paintings fine, or if he choose, 

Mak' you sore monarch's ha'. 



40 



Though in you I've spent days o' joy 
And nichts o' peaceful rest. 

When nothing did my health annoy. 
Nor yet by want opprest. 

In you I've tossed upon my bed. 

In agonizing pain. 
Hard fortune's sharp and furbished blade 

My eyery hope have slain. 

Thus nearly killed by fortune's frown 
And tyrant's iron grasp, 

I little now can call my own- 
Sweet freedom's all my boast. 

I mourn not for your sooty wa'. 

Nor yet your snoring reek. 
Nor do I care though down you fa' 

And fonn a mi nous heap. 

My bosom friends I only mourn. 

Whose kindness I did share. 
When stem affliction's raging storm 

Did drive me to despair. 

For tham I must a mourner be. 

For surely they were kin'. 
They tried a' means to comfort me. 

When torturing pain did pine. 

Their nHnory long shall have a place 
Within my grateful heart. 



41 



I'll think upon their smiling face. 
Though far from them I part. 

I'll v/ish then health and lives of length, 

And lots of milk and meal , 
I'll sing their praise wi' a' my strength 

Before I bid fareweel . 

In mourning thus for cronies dear 

A word before I close, 
Itiile wiping off the gathering tear 

I sing fareweel to foes. 

For few there be, however true. 
That hated are by none, 

I love them all— three times adieu- 
New friends I'll try to win. 



THERE'S A DIFFERENCE CF FEN IN SXIE7Y. 

There's a power that binds, a memorial of love. 

And wedlock impresses its charms- 
There 's a power that can witness its path fran above. 
And open sweet innocence amis. 

There's a man of society, a monarch of state. 

Whose pleasures his wishes can meet. 
When he looks on his scenery he finds he is great. 

Yet his happiness is far fran conplete. 



42 



Look o'er his vast lands, viiat a mighty expanse 

Whose bound Vies the work of a day 
To the traveller who wishes his fame to advance 

By attempting its breadth to survey. 

In the sweet sumier months he can view the sweet brier 
On the banks of the clear winding bum. 

And list to the blackbird atuning her lyre 
And the lark's swelling notes in return. 

Then winding aloft to the top of the hill 
Where he meets with the tall blooming tree. 

Her boughs with the dewdrop sweet nature doth fill. 
And the heather bells feeding the bee. 

Has happiness then in his heart placed her throne. 
Or does innocence cfc^ll in his breast. 

When the twilight of eve calls the busy bee home 
And sweet nature has lulled her to rest. 

In yon stately mansion you'll then find the squire- 
He reclines on a soft bed of down- 
But the ploughboy's slumbers denies him a share. 
As his long sleepless hours move roun'. 

Like the fury of the xean that drives the proud wave 
On the channel of the wild swelling deep. 

So troubled are the thoughts of the earth-minded slave 
He gets not the refresfment of sleep. 

His lot 'mong oceans of wealth being cast. 
And surptuously he can fare. 



43 

With joy he can view the bloons of the past. 
But at the future he looks in despair. 

Though large be his stock of accunulated wealth. 

It soon must belong to another. 
For a time he may boast of his strength and his health. 

But like auturm's falling leaf it must wither. 

For happiness surely with him cannot be. 

Nor innocence his cup overflow. 
When he looks in the mirror and plainly can see 

Grey hairs and a curve in his brow. 

His curves and his wrinkles bespeak of a bill. 

That his gold is unable to pay; 
His pleasure must then have a mixture of gall, 

liien he cones to the end of his day. 

There's a man of society toil-worn and bare— 

The scoff of the noble and gay; 
To his home want pays a visit yet oft 

Can rejoice at the end of his day. 

He has not been blessed wi' houses nor land. 

Nor treasures of this world's gain; 
His toil -tortured body and homey hand 

Is proof that his life's one of pain. 

Yet blessed be He who ruleth aright. 

And judgeth with pure equity. 
This toil-worn mortal is as dear in His sight. 

As the wealthiest monarch that be. 



44 



A LOOK AT DC MISERIES OF TFE POOR. 

When gloamin's welcome gloon was spread. 
And tyrant's voice v\0S still — 

■fTie sultry sun had found its bed 
Behind yon v^stem hill. 

The bonds of toil asunder rent. 

As darkness down did fa, 
Wi' weary limbs I onward went 

To seek my hunble ha'. 

I trudged the weary mile alang, 
A' drenched wi' cauld and rain— 

I thocht that toil was naething wrang, 
1^ prattlers to maintain. 

I thocht of some vyhose wretched fate 
Was ten times wDrse than mine— 

Whan fortune hard had so beset 
They hungry on did pine. 

Their raggit wee things far ahin 

Could scarcely gang ava' — 
Tlieir little feet had got nae sheen, 

TTio' cauld the blast did blaw. 

I saw then stop an' cry for bread 

At yonder lofty ha'. 
An' jeeringly the inmates said 

Ye'll better wear awa'. 



45 



Go seek enploy and work for bread. 
For v^e ha'e nane to spare— 

Ye canna here be vanned nor fed. 
Nor of our bounty share. 

The weary traveller then began 

A fractured ami to bare- 
Have pity on your fellow-man. 
Our fate has been severe. 

Tho' I like you had once a home. 
Seme land an' sheep and kye, 

Fran house to house I now must roam. 
And hear the hungry cry. 

This broken ami was once as strong 

As other men's you see. 
With pride I then did feed my young. 

An' clothed them courteously. 

But yonder field where bullets fly. 
And cannons loud did roar. 

Made many a man as wel 1 as I 
Such loss as mine deplore. 

There many a man did lose his heme. 
And wears the begging weed. 

And through the world must wander on 
And seek his staff o' breid. 

And many in yon field do sleep. 
And some of them I knew. 



46 



Have left their widows poor to weep. 
And ragged babies too. 

I only crave a wee bit bread 

To still the hungry cry. 
And if you could make up a bed 

Where we a night might lie. 

0! here we give not any bread, 

Ye'll better wear awa' — 
We cannot well make up a bed. 

Our beasts must have the straw. 

At thoughts like this my heart was full. 

As homeward I did draw,— 
I also saw some sons of toil , 

Mian fortune seem'd to thraw. 

I saw one trudgin' frae his toil 

To meet a scanty meal , 
And cares along the lonesome mile 

His thoughtful bosom swell. 

A wee bit pock below his arm, 

A peck o' meal or twa. 
And anxious looks for his return. 

The girdle on to draw. 

His youngsters long had cried for bread. 
And some had gone to sleep— 

The others thought they heard him tread 
At each returning sweep. 



47 



Of v/ind and rain that through the roof 

In oceans down did fa' — 
Their blinkin' spunkie's peep'd aloof 

To warn their wretched ha'. 

At last the weary peasant's foot 

Broke silence on the ear; 
With eager looks each moved aboot 

To make a passage clear- 
That he might see his own fireside. 

And its best comfort share; 
Each healthy face he view'd wi' pride, 

Though scanty they did fare. 

But, lastly, looking on the bed 
Where, tortur'd long wi' pain. 

His poor exhausted wife was laid. 
Scarce covered frae the rain. 

Her wae-wom looks did meet his eye. 
Her fainting heart refresht. 

To see him stil 1 the hungry cry. 
And hush the young to rest. 

But nothing could his hands procure, 

Tho' daily on he toil 'd. 
Could to her sufferings prove a cure 

By vliich she was assail 'd. 

Her system weak and weaker crew. 
And pale, pale, grew her cheek. 



48 



Her eyes no more gay scenes could view. 
Her tongue refused to speak. 

Her soul, rejoicing, upward flew. 
And left this wretched plain. 

To meet on high yon ransomed crew. 
Beyond the reach of pain. 

But, oh! despised and wretched, she. 

Of rich and gay the scorn. 
Her mortal dust could scarcely be 

To its intemient borne. 

No shop was shut, nor labour hi shed- 
None knew that such had been— 

But each his calling onward pushed. 
Around this woeful scene. 

Society has not yet been broke. 

Nor Parliament dissolved— 
Her loss is only but a joke 

To those possessed of gold. 

But enter in, ye man of gold. 
And cast your eyes around,— 

For tearful eyes, and grief threefold 
Can in this hut be found. 

The orphan's cry ye cannot cease. 
Their loss ye cannot count. 

Nor can sweet nature's bliss appease. 
Or half their grief sunnount. 



49 



TheiY present help, their earthly stay. 

The soother of their woes, 
Refuses now to hear their cry. 

Or hush than to repose. 

Her eye of pity no/v no more 

Can watch them cautiously. 
Nor active hand a piece procure 

When they for hunger cry. 

No: like the whole of Adam's race— 

The debt of nature paid— 
The orphan's only hiding-place 

Can be with Christ our Head. 



THE SONS OF TOIL. 

Does honour belong to the sons of toil. 

By the sweat o' their brow who win their bread; 

Hard labour their tedious hours beguile. 
As down the current of time they tread. 

It cannot dishonour a diligent man 
To work and earn his daily bread. 

Since our great Master devised the plan- 
When Adam at first for labour was made. 

No doubt his labour was pleasant and easy. 

To walk through the garden and prune the trees; 



50 

Till he for a wife got very ireasy, 

And then for an apron to turn the breeze. 

Of the fruit of the garden he got full power. 
Except in its centre, a sweet blocming tree; 

His Master said, Adam, I hope you'll be sure. 
On pain of your life, to reserve it for me. 

But he broke his trust at the peril of his life. 
The serpent his weakness quite soon did beguile; 

Being wearied alone, he had now got a wife. 
By Satan's advice she soon broke the spell. 

No knowledge of evil or good can you have. 

Till its leafy branches and sweet fruit you break; 

No death can assail you— this favor I crave— 
Believe me in safety, its fruit you may take. 

Oh! cruel mother, vhy thus did you venture 
Against the camands of your Master so high. 

And list to the voice of the world's tormentor. 
By whom you and all since have been doomed to die? 

No more can you meet his sweet smile in the garden. 

Nor hide the dark crime fran his heart-piercing eye. 
Nor wait at the gate to ask him a pardon. 

But inder a bush you thought safely to lie. 

The trees in sweet Eden v^re leafy and bloomin'. 
No doubt they a shade fran a man could afford; 

But thought ye, miserable law-breaking woman. 

To find a retreat 'neath their boughs fran the Lord. 



51 

On entering He found that his gardener v^s fled,-- 
Then, where art thou, Adam; was soon his reply, 

I am naked, dear master, and inder the shade 
I thought to conceal my guilt frcm your eye. 

Naked! by what means came you to know- 
Have you broken the fruit of my own blooming tree? 

There is not another in the garden does grow. 

Should have taught you the lesson you now tell to me, 

The wcman you gave me has broken your tree. 
And finding its fruit to be pleasant for meat; 

And eating herself she gave it to ms. 
And I of its knowledge also did eat. 

The serpent beguiled, was then Eve's reply- 
He said it would teach me evil frcm good- 
He assured me its fruit I safely might try; 

And in eating I found it was pleasant for food. 

A curse on the serpent by all other beast- 
All the days of his life on his belly he'll go- 
On the dust of the earth I will cause him to feast. 
He has been the cause of your sad overthrow. 

No more can you dress the sweet fruit of my garden. 
But out you must go to labour the soil ; 

All the days of your life you must pray for a pardon. 
Thou father of all the sons of toil . 

Then out from the garden Adam did go. 

To earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. 



52 

Yet God fron on high did a blessing bestow 

On the fruits of his labour, in holding the plough. 

Oh! had he been able to shun Satan's wile. 

And dress this sweet tree for his maker alone, 

His sons would have never been bom to toil. 
But vliy should we mumiur since now it is done. 

There is happiness yet in connection with toil — 
Your great lofty castles I value then not— 

S^eet fortune has often afforded her smile 
Aropund the fireside of my humble cot. 

I sometimes have thought if riches were mine 

I could mingle with nobles and bear a great name. 

Yet there's something within me that bids me resign 
To the object for which to this world I came. 

I came not to mingle with gents in a palace 

l^ere tall blooming trees round their garden do smile. 
Where the clear wimpling burnie gives light to their valleys 
Fron its banks they would banish the sons of toil. 

Yet there's rocm in this world for all that were made— 
Our water is sure fron our Father on high,— 

If fortune be kind we can earn our bread— 
A small piece of land may be ours when we die. 

How pleasant to view in a sweet July morning 
The fragrance attending their tall lofty bower, 

Shrubb'ries and roses their borders adorning, 
Alas! they may die fron their view in an hour. 



53 

Look o'er their vast boundaries, ye sons of toil , 
And ask then if their treasure is placed— 

If so disappointment their hopes will beguile. 

When they come to the place where the weary 's at rest, 

0! why should abundance of this world's treasure. 
And boundaries so broad of its fertile soil 

Awake in their boson a wann displeasure 
Against the hard fate of the sons of toil . 

I've listened and heard their tyrannical voices. 
And volleys of blaspheny from them prxeed 

Against the success of the toil-worn boys. 
Who labour to earn their daily bread. 

Long life and good health to my brothers in toil , 
It's but a short time they can harmer us down— 

The moth and the mst their treasure will spoil — 
Their gold cannot gain then a heavenly crxMi. 

0! mark you this blessing, ye sons of toil. 

Its value we can not well comprehend; 
The father of orphans will lend us a smile, 

TTiough the lovers of pleasure will not us befriend. 

The glittering guinea is useful to man. 

If contentment and happiness with it is given; 

But mark its enjoyment, how short the span. 
It can have no part in leading to heaven. 

If gold were the pride of yon mansions so high. 
Where Jesus and angels in glory do shine. 



54 

The pennyless poor still below them would lie. 
Through eternity's ages in misery to pine. 

If in gold our affliction have fixed their abode- 
How happy the fate of the sons of toil ,— 

On a bed of affliction how helpless a god- 
How cold and indifferent its glittering smile. 

Accunulate worlds of gold and treasure 

Around the couch where affliction does lie; 

And ask its object, if here he has treasure. 
When God has appointed that now he must die. 

His conscience will wake then that's long been asleep. 
And tell him his god is unable to save, 

Below the bold mountains he'll then strive to creep. 
As repentance can never be found in the grave. 

If repentance is left till the grave on us close. 
No mercy can then from Emanuel be shown— 

Experience then will teach what we lose 
In trusting in gold for a heavenly crown. 

I mean now to say that the poor will have treasure 

On high alone because they are poor— 
If faith is their breastplate and Jesus their pleasure, 

A place 'mong the ransomed to them will be sure. 

There's many, alas! of the sons of the poor. 
Whom Jesus has never a place in their hearts. 

Though often he waits to knock at the door. 
As often they wait till again he departs. 



55 

I only maintain that the sons of toil , 

In a cottage of mud can meet with God; 
While the rich of this world their morals would spoil. 

Were they found 'neath the roof of their humble abode. 

Yet often has Jesus, the Saviour of men. 

Been inder the roof with the humble poor- 
While he waits on the monarch of honour and fame. 
His mercy will also extend to the poor. 

Universally, then, ye sons of the poor. 

If it can be possible, rend the sky 
In praising s/veet sweet Jesus, whose mercies are sure. 

To such of his flock as the noble pass by. 

Their riches are only but lent for a time. 

By Him who at once can take them away; 
Tho' their scen'ry be grand and their gold plate may shine, 

If He makes the call , no longer 's their stay. 

Sane riches can yield us no hereafter pleasure. 
Beyond the short span this life can afford; 

Let us strive, rich and poor, to lay up our treasure 
Where thrice hallelujah is the song of the Lord. 



THE WAR. 



Old Scotland, long thy peaceful reign. 
And tranquil freedom blessed the soil , 

Till distant lands, for love of gain. 
Have cast a frcm upon thy smile. 



56 



Thy soldiers brave have left their heme— 

Their country's right they will pursue- 
On Russia's shore the seas beyond. 

They'll prove their hearts of steel are true. 

Unequal combats they have won. 

Though somewhat dear in the extreme. 

On Alma's braes their blood did run; 
Yet "Victory!" was the battle scream. 

On ten to one they did advance, 
'Mid cannonade and bursting shell. 

Our fearless heroes up did prance. 
Laid hundreds low at every knell. 

Victory! the triunphant name 

Brings gladsome tidings from afar. 

And sends aloft brave bri tain's fame 
/Jbove a barbarous Russian war. 

But, victory! is there in thy name 

A triimph suited to the case 
Of her whose husband has been slain. 

And buried in yon lawless place? 

Beyond the seas where cannons roar. 
Can Britain's daughters hear the cry 

Of son or brother in their gore. 

Without a friend to close their eye? 

Hunanity! there is for none. 

But, hand to hand, with ball and steel. 



57 



With dauntless step their rights to win. 
But widows here their loss will feel. 

The grave alone relief can yield 

To those that's left their loss to moum. 
The lifeless clay on Alma's field 

Can never more to them return. 

The orphan baby on the knee 

Cannot attend to hope or fear. 
But spreads its hands in mirth and glee— 

The mother answers wi ' a tear. 

In looking up he makes a pause 
In breathless silence for a wee. 

But as he cannot know the cause. 
Again he leaps in blithsome glee. 

Why can the orphan baby smile 

When sorrow swells his mother's breast? 
No sleep her weary hours beguile— 

Her couch at night can yield no rest. 

He smiles because his tender years 
Cannot attend to grief or woe; 

His infant heart no danger fears- 
Hi s father's fate he cannot know. 

He yet will know an orphan's fate— 
The hearts of pity sure he'll crave. 

He cannot mingle with the great. 

But drudge through life an orphan slave. 



H 



58 



But few will take a part with him~ 

He's left without a father's care- 
He soon mist leam his bread to win. 
And with his mother's anguish share. 

The glittering steel no mercy shows. 
Nor cares for wife nor orphan's cry; 

Our soldiers brave must face their foes. 
And for their queen and country die. 

How hard their fate; but be it so- 
Great Britain cannot lose her fame; 

The Russian thief shall never throw 
His amis around Victoria's claim. 

How precious are her soldiers' blood. 
Nor can it run in streams in vain. 

They yet shall break the oppressor's rod. 
And make his bed among the slain. 

The British ball his thirst will quench. 
And make him with his own content; 

I only mourn the vast expense 

Of British blood that has been spent. 

Brave British heroes thus to die 
'Mong barbarians in a distant land. 

Oft murdered as they wounded lie. 
Unable to give hand to hand. 

TTieir memory long shall have a nane. 
When days of war are lulled to sleep— 



Justice shall give place to fame. 
And wives and orphans cease to weep. 

0, soon and hasty let the sun 

Of freedcm shine from shore to shore; 

Let warriors soon put by the gun. 
And voice of war be heard no more. 

A bloodless war is yet to fight— 
A crcM) of glory's yet to come;— 

The King of Kings does yet invite 
A volunteering party home. 

This King has also been at war— 

A conqueror he also died; 
But he is now exalted far 

Above the reach of tyrant's pride. 

Yet though He has a place on high 
He condescends to bless the poor; 

He listens to the orphan's cry— 
For broken hearts he has a cure. 

His volunteers He'll not deny 

Though they be poor and maimed and blind- 
Through him all danger they'll defy- 
In him a present help they'll find. 

Ye soldiers of the Crimea, then. 
At Satan's kingdan aim a ball. 

And volunteer to Canaan's King, 
Lest in this heathen land ye fall. 



60 



Your fall would then a triumph know 

That kings and priests are strangers to,- 

No signal there to face the foe. 
Nor blood of war your path imbrue. 

But there is heard Emanuel's song 
Proclaimed by all his ransoned sons; 

Around His throne a shining throng, 
Fran age to age His glory runs. 

Let all adhere fron sea to sea. 
And join in this triurphant song. 

And then, when war shall cease to be. 
The King of glory calls us heme. 



7>C0U)M) THE rei YEAR. 

I mused as the midnight hour drew nigh: 

I thought the old year before me did stand. 

Weary and wae-wom he appeared in my eye. 

With an hour-glass nearly run out in his hand. 

Fain would I have constrained him to stay 

While memories both pleasant and mournful did shout. 
But his curves and his wrinkles did clearly display 

That the sands of his glass were nearly run out. 

Many a blessing to me hast thou brought. 
For which hearty thanks to you I would pay. 



61 

New they have been every morning for nought. 
And fresh every moment in golden array. 

Indeed, fron the garden of my heart. 

Some hopes by thee are uprooted and slain. 

For their clustering buds I yet feel the smart— 
They fell, and never can quicken again. 

Then he said— give God the praise 

For what I have given and taken away. 
And lay up your store in His dwelling place. 

For oft blighted hopes His goodness display. 

But I answered, thou also hast hid fron my view 
The loved and revered that in dust now do lie— 

The homes they made pleasant have altered their hue. 
No more to my call their sweet voices reply. 

Still he said— give glory to God; 

About those that are with Him why can you conplain? 
Make sure your salvation that so your abode 

May be with then never to part again. 

Then faintly He munnered-HiTiy message to man 

Is done, the stone is rolled away— 
The door to the sepulchre open does stand. 

With those that are gone in death I must lay. 

I gazed upon his wae-wom brow. 

To me it seemed beautiful, 'mid curves and wrinkles- 
Fain, fain, would I have swept the snow 

That gathered around his hoary temples. 



62 

But he suffered me not, and lay down to die, 
I then kneeled, crying departing year; 

I behold a scroll 'neath thy mantle does lie, 
What witness at judgment of me shall it bear? 

Lew and solemn were his farewell tones. 

He munnured quite unknown to pb— 
When books were opened, Adam's sons 

Quite soon shall know their destiny. 

The midnight hour struck, my face I did cover. 

Mourning for His death who had once been my frien'; 

I renembered with pain how oft I did smother 

The threatenings and warnings to me he made plain. 

I remembered the wealth of time cast away, 

That prizeless boon at His feet did lie- 
No tears nor cries could lengthen its stay- 
Farewell! was the whisper of his feeble reply. 

And v^en again I could life up my eyes, 
Lo! the new year came direct fron above; 

Sniling, He greeted me with friendship's sweet ties. 
While around me lay many bright tokens of love. 

But He being a stranger, I was afraid; 

And when His sweet welcome I tried to return. 
My lips did trenble, my tongue was laid, 

I thought my guilt in my bosom did burn. 

Still smiling He whispered, fear not, 
I come from the Giver of every good; 



63 



No cause you can have to moum your lot, 

When still you are saved in your sins' multitude, 

New year, then I mumiured, recalling my breath, 
Vhere art thou appointed to lead ms. 

To joy or sorrow, to life or death; 

Or still on the riches of mercy to feed me? 

Then he answered, I do not know; 

Nor doth the angel next the throne- 
Give me thine hand and onward go. 

And ask of Him that sits thereon. 

Enough that I accomplish his will— 

Strive to make this will thine own- 
Then thou shall taste an angel's smile. 
That here below can ne'er be known. 

Since I can nothing premise thee— 

Take prayer for wisdom as thy moments fly. 

And be content to follow me. 

For on the next moment we cannot rely. 

Yet though we walk together in love. 

Forget not that thou art a pilgrim below; 

Striving to waft your thoughts above. 
And be pitiful to those who mourn in woe. 

Uhite together in brotherly love. 

Though the dregs of bitterness straw the way. 
And be not too eager its grasp to remove. 

Lest your weakness of faith sweet hopes betray. 



64 



God's perfect discipline wisdcm can give. 

Therefore count than happy that such may endure. 

When the sun breaks the sky on the east, as you live, 
Make haste, to the altar his peace to procure. 

And when night brings her twinkles of life into view. 
Make sure that the sins of the day be forgiven; 

That vhen night bids me whisper a paionful adieu. 
You may bless me a helper in leading to heaven. 



ON TfC DEPARTURE OF FIFTY-FOUR. 

Old fifty-four thy reign is o'er— 

Old nature seems to die— 
The sons of men can view no more 

Thy sfiadows as they fly. 

Thy days and mDnths have swiftly fled. 
As shadows o'er the plain, 

They now are numbered with the dead. 
Nor can return again. 

Thy seasons also had their time. 
The harvest and the spring. 

The suTTTier sun did also shine. 
When sweet the birds did sing. 

The winter also had its place. 
When pale the blooming rose. 



65 



And pu'd the gowan frae nature's face. 
The birds did seek repose. 

Her covering white o'erspread the earth. 

Made waters crystal sheet- 
To tanpests wild the north gave birth. 
Old nature seemed to greet. 

The blooming trees that proudly waved. 

When shone the sumier sun. 
Have now upon their boughs engraved,— 

Our time of life is run. 

Our tall majestic lifeless forms- 
Fit anblems of the past— 

Must wait till gentle spring returns. 
And mDurn beneath the blast. 

The feathered warblers also weep- 
No more their nDming song 

The calm unruffled landscapes meet. 
And softly glides along. 

Shall death for ever thus prevail. 

Or is't but for a time; 
Shall lifeless shadows, dead and pale. 

Again in splendour shine? 

Again their boughs with seen 'ry gran' 

Shall nature's face adorn. 
Leaves unrenewed the wrinkled man 

In hoary hairs to mourn. 



I 



66 



No annual birth belongs to man. 

But each successive year 
Contracts a portion of the span 

Of time that leaves us here. 

His time of spring has passed away. 

Nor can again return— 
His hoary hairs the fact display, 

That man ms made to mourn. 

Man's time is equal to a web 

That statesmen come to buy. 
And years the ellvyan to it laid 

That swiftly measures by. 

Each varying object has its place. 

In nature's beauty shine. 
But years soon mark the stealthy pace 

Of unrecalling time. 

And yet three score of years give rocm. 

Though swiftly on they fly. 
For nan to watch the opening tcmb. 

Where thousands yearly lie. 

Sweet time is here, the grave is there. 

Still down the currents run— 
The way is paved with Satan's snare. 

The Christless soul to win. 

He's gained the heart of knight and squire. 
And led then on the way. 



67 



That drives the soul to dark despair 
When comes the evil day. 

Along the stealthy trac± of time 

file Sun of Glory smiles. 
And has on every heart a claim, 

TTiough born to cares and toils. 

ccme and let His glory rise. 
And Satan's kingdon fall. 

And then v^en spring and surmier dies. 
We'll hear the trunpet call. 

Ccme join yon spotless ransomed band 
lAhom Jesus' blood did gain— 

His tampet blows to welcome home 
The purchase of His pain. 



A RECITATION FOR A SOIREE. 

Dear Sir, I'm unable my feelings to express 
Regarding the honour conferred upon me~ 

Forgive mistakes in my simple address 

I've pined to deliver at your happy soiree. 

My mean education has rendered it simple; 

The want of the guinea, that makes us go braw. 



68 

Has never allowed me to d^ll in a temple. 
Nor mingle with gents in their house or ha. 

Yet, nevertheless, let us rest in contentment 
With vjhat of this world we have for our share. 

Since riches to all is not the presentment. 

For more than our own we have no right to care. 

Yet happy 's the man who got no education, 
A place in society he rightly can claim. 

If he has a heart that can feel for his nation. 
And use it for Him who has given him the same. 

In the days of our fathers, when schools were not plenty. 
The loud voice of tyranny filled land and sea; 

Your platfonn, then, would have been filled but scanty. 
Had there been such a thing as a happy soiree. 

But no such gathering was then country fashion. 
The reek of the whisky-pot rather you'd see. 

Distilling its vencm, our country harassing. 

Though scarcely so sweetly as our drappie o' tea. 

Though I must confess, to my sorrow and shame. 
Sometimes in its clutches it did enwrap me; 

But trusting a Power that's higher than my own. 
It never again shall have power to trap me. 

We'll hurl the v\liisky-pot right overboard. 
And fill up our cups wi' a drappie o' tea; 

With the whisky-pots broken, we then can afford 
A sixpence to spend at a happy soiree. 



69 

With v^isky and tea now let us have done. 

And ask for the aid of the schoolmaster's care 

To teach our youngsters to read while they're young. 
That they to the head of the class may repair. 

Look through the streets of either village or town. 
The youngsters you'll see there both ragged and foul — 

Their names in society are not yet marked down— 
Their mothers forgot to send them to school. 

When I was a boy, I was sent to the school — 

To me it only appears like yestreen— 
I had not a master my copy to rule. 

Nor even to leam me a scrape o' the pen. 

But I had a mistress, an old vliisky-brewsr. 

And her reekin' potty had fairly run dry; 
But still the puir body had bread to procure. 

And then as a teacher her hand she did try. 

She had not been blessed wi ' a deep education— 
Her first occupation did not that require- 
But in the first book she could give infomiation 
To such of the young as to her did repair. 

But mark now the school with its college-bred master. 
With youngsters surrounding his class in full store; 

He'll teach them to read, and their young minds are foster'd 
With things that my wi fie had not in her power. 

And long may his efforts be bless'd with success. 
May every advantage his labours still crown. 



70 



Till the same knowledge the y)ung my possess 
That they to the younger may still hand it dov^. 

He's a blank in sxiety that wants education. 
If he's not possessed of good mither wit. 

And even supposing, he wants infomiation. 
Ere he his language aright can conduct. 

None now can complain for the want of this blessing. 
The school in most cases exceeds not a mile. 

The pay to the poor is not so harassing, 

I think wi' goodwill we could manage the toil. 

And then when our babies come up to hae wit. 
They canna cast up that we kept them at hame. 

And kept them unlearned, like such other grit 

They may meet in their way, both shabby and lame. 

Success to the school, likewise to its teacher. 
Success to the heart that's frcm slavery free. 

Success to the labourer, and also the preacher. 
And him that has love for a happy soiree. 



A VOICE OF SORROW. 

The voice of sorrow and of care 
Came heaving on the gale,— 

What case of grief is this I hear? 
Ccme tell the mDurnful tale. 



71 



file day is fair, the tide is calm. 
No stormy wind is there; 

Frcm whence, then, comes the dreadful shout- 
That shriek of wild despair? 

Tho' stomi appears not in the air. 

Nor tenpest in the sky; 
Yet at the pier of Peterhead, 

Ihe billows mounted high. 

And death and desolation great 

Was fraught upon that wave. 
That hurried fifteen human beings 

To an untimely grave. 

The whole are gone!— the tide rolls on. 

Relentless as before;— 
The fearful cry and mournful groan 

Was heard along the shore. 

This morning when they rose in haste 
They were in health and blocm; 

But er^ the setting of the sun 
Pale death had sealed their doan. 

The heavy waves like lightning flew— 

For sorrow will not wait— 
And many a heart did heave with grief. 

For their untimely fate. 

But who will tell the mDther dear 
That she has lost her son. 



72 



Or who will tell the sister sad 
TTiat her dear brother's gone? 

I'll moum for thee, my brother dear. 

For many a day and night, 
For nothing now this world can do. 

Will give my heart delight. 

I miss him fran the lonely hearth, 

I miss him e\/eryvhere— 
And though I go where he has been, 

I never meet him there. 

But I will never cease to weep. 

My tears v/ill aye be shed. 
Till I am laid along with him. 

Within yon lowly bed. 

And if my sorrow be a sin, 

I'll pray to be forgiven; 
For faith and hope both vliisper me. 

My brother is in heaven. 

Then cease my unavailing tears 

That do so freely flow. 
For in a few and fleeting years, 

I'll be what he is now. 

And when cold death shall close my eyes 
On all things earthly here; 

may I meet in Paradise 
With you, my brother dear. 



73 



Where sin nor sorrow dare not cane 
To mar the peaceful throng. 

llio sing the praises of the Lamb, 
In everlasting song. 



FAREWELL TO TTVWmiE. 

Farewell to Tarwathie— 
Adieu, Nbrmon Hill- 
Land of my fathers 
I bid ^u farewel 1 . 

Your hills and ymr valleys. 
Your mountains of heath- 
Still dear to my heart 
Is the land of my birth. 

Adieu to my comrades- 
May God bless you all;— 

1^ friends and relations 
I bid you farewell. 

For a while I must leave you 

And go to the sea- 
Heaven prosper the bonny ship 
That I will go wi' 

May He who never slumbers 
From danger us keep. 



74 

While viewing his wonders 
On the mighty deep. 

Our ship she is rigged 

And ready to sail. 
Our crew they are anxious 

To follow the whale. 

Where the icebergs float. 
And the stonny winds blow; 

]/here the land and the ocean 
Is covered with snow. 

The cold clime of Greenland 

Is barren and bare; 
No seed time nor harvest 

Is ever known there. 

The birds here sing sweetly 
On mountain and dale; 

But the songsters are mute 
In the land of the whale. 

There is no habitation 
For ran to live there— 

The king of that country 

Is the fierce Greenland bear, 

But v^en I am sailing 

Upon the wide main. 
Be cheerful and happy 

Till I come again. 



75 

And you my dear mother, 

weep not for me, 
But trust in His mercy 

TTiat ruleth the sea. 

Who saves on the ocean 
As well's on the land. 

For v\e are all guarded 
By His mighty hand. 

He rides on the billows 

And walks on the wave- 
Hi s ami is powerful 
To sink or to save. 

And though I be absent 
You need never fear; 

There's no place so distant 
But God will be there. 

I will pray night and mDming, 
Dear parents, for you; 

For the hope of returning 
Takes the sting fron adieu. 



FAREWELL . 

Awake, my muse, in mournful strains. 
And let me dip my quill. 

A pungence my boson pains- 
Its that sad word Farewell! 



76 



Ah! could I use a Milton's power, 
Or great Lord Byron's skill. 

Or could I frofii Parnassus shower 
A balm to soothe farewell. 

Ah! can hunanity exist. 

And torturing pangs be still. 

When all our joys in life's short list 
Are mingled in farewell. 

The warrior on yon battle field, 

Wi' empty veins lies pale. 
And shivering in yon hurble beild 

His partner groans farewell. 

It's anguish rends and tears the heart. 

Till nervous pains assail. 
Till fran the earth wi' sorrow's dart. 

She's thrust by what?— farewell. 

A brother, or a sister, dear. 

To distant islands sail; 
And leave behind a dropping tear. 

The cause is still— farewell. 

Dear Mary, when you're on the sea. 
Where foaming maintains swell. 

Then there is time for you and me. 
To think on sad farewell. 

And v^en yon distant lands ye roam. 
And view each hill and dale. 



77 



ly simple lines will call you home 
To where v^e breathed farewell. 

may the Powers above carmand. 
And send a pleasant gale. 

That so your bark may safely land. 
And thus to soothe farewell. 

Though bitter, bitter be its power. 
Beyond all earthly skill. 

Hie lambs of Christ can find an hour. 
When all its pangs are still. 



THE PNQUISH OF FAREVELL. 

The anguish of the little word 
That breaths a long farewell. 

Has in my boson plunged a sword 
More sharp than furbished steel. 

Ah! can my pen its power indite. 
Or can my my thoughts express 

A feeble joy or faint delight 
At seeing again thy face. 

Ah, no! poor helpless sinful me 
No trace can here be seen. 

While wildly roars the foaming sea, 
A distance us between. 



78 



The brightest hope or purest joy 
That nature's bliss can tell. 

Is found unable to destroy 
The powers of sad farewell. 

Ah! Robert, if you've felt its power. 
You'll pity me, your brother; 

And if for thought you find an hour. 
Behold your weeping mother. 

Ah, then! if tears in torrents flow. 
And grief your boson swell; 

Your led to ask vhy is it so? 
The answer's still farewell. 

take not this amiss, my dear. 
When I my feelings tell — 

Sweet hope has dried a bitter tear. 
Saying, short is our farewell. 

She says we yet will happy be 

In unity together;-- 
The foaming billows of the sea 

Our friendship cannot sever. 

And if we're doomed no more to meet, 
The cause is not our own; 

We'll strive to meet at Jesus' feet— 
Forewell is there unknown. 

Ah! what a bliss doth yet remain. 
Though distant our abode. 



79 



We both are led in mercy's chain 
To praise our living God. 

He's not confined to lands of wealth. 

Nor spurns at poverty; 
And if a soul's depressed in health. 

He point's to Calvary. 

Ah! Robert, v^ether home or forth, 
Unsheath Emanuel's sword; 

Remenber still your spirit's worth. 
And daily seek the Lord. 



TO TIC AUTHOR'S MJT1£R, 
on the prospect of death. 

How fast thy feeble frame comes dov^ 
Oh, mother, hear my tale— 

The cheek that wore the rose's bloom 
Is now turned yery pale. 

The breast, by which in infant years 

I fostered was and fed. 
Is now the scene of griefs and fears. 

Hard fate has so decreed. 

The hand that spread m infant bed 
And softly laid me down— 



80 



By other hands nust soon be laid 
Within the silent tomb. 

The knees that often bovved in prayer 

For me a helpless babe; 
That I with saints on high might share 

The ransom Jesus paid. 

The eyes that often dropped a tear, 

l^ pain did \ve assail, 
And bosom heaving deep with fear, 

Lest I should ne'er be well. 

They all alike must feeble grew, 

/Vxi totter do/i the hil 1 , 
Regardless of the mourner's we. 

Though none their place can fill. 

No doubt you long to leave this land. 

Where troubles Inard alloy. 
To join on high yon ransomed band, 

Where dv/ells unending joy. 

But nature's stream must run its round, 
/W wait heaven's high decree. 

Till in the clouds you hear the sound 
That sets the prisoners free. 

But can the eye of him who writes— 

Oh, tell me, mother dear. 
If in relenting death thee suite, 

Forbear to shed a tear. 



81 



The stroke is hard— I've felt the pang 

To lose an infant dear, 
liien fortune's fro-jris in double thrang 

Refused to dry my tear. 

Bereavement's hard for human flesh— 

A sister or a brother— 
But v/ho can fill 'ner vacant place, 

A sympathising mother. 

Bift Nature's garden's planted full 
Of trees that soon must wither; 

And winter's frost their bloom will kill. 
And dearest friends must sever. 

But look, my dear, to yonder hill , 
I'iiere stands the ransomed throng. 

And hark their voices, loud and shrill. 
The cheerful notes prolong. 

I hope they have got room in store 

Prepar'd for you and me. 
Where all shall meet to part no more 

Throughout eternity. 



ON 7}£ DEAT>^ OF A CHILD. 

How calm was the morning, hay bri^ beam'd the sky, 
The landscape looked lovely and rare. 



82 



When Jesus' sweet lamnie to earth bade good-bye. 
And her soul wing'd its way through the air. 

How calm, and how sweet, how lovely her feature. 

As o'er her the not her did weep- 
No more needs she claim the name of a creature. 

If in Jesus she truly doth sleep. 

Sweet Jesus invites the lambs young as she. 

He has said,— forbid then not; 
For a father to her and a mDther he'll be. 

Though on earth she may soon be forgot. 

Her mother may bitterly weep for a time. 
For the loss of her suckling that's gone. 

But Jesus who lent her can think it no crime 
To claim her again as His own. 

Methinks, if she could look down fron on high. 
She would cry, dear mother, refrain— 

The cause of your sorrow and heart-swelling sigh 
To me is eternal gain. 

0, let not your bosom give place to sorrow. 

Nor tears your pillow bedew,— 
But think on the voice that waits not to morrow- 

And this might your salvation pursue. 

Though short was her reign in this world of woe. 
And helpless her wee tender frame. 

No mercy the cold hand of death could bestow. 
But her heart with his arrow did aim. 



83 



But trembling within the heart of the shell 
Was a life v^ich death did not know— 

Sveet Jesus was waiting till death struck the knell. 
Then around it His ams did throw. 

He bore it away to the land of the free. 

Where death has no longer a claim— 
His saints were awaiting in raptures to see. 

How its snail voice His praise could proclaim. 

Know this, ye mothers, if such is your case. 

That Jesus take fron you His ov^. 
If He is your shepherd, it's also your place. 

To resign a bright star for his throne. 



MY mx swLL BE wrm jesus. 

I would like to walk with Jesus, 
I would like to know his tread; 

If to show me such he pleases. 
As for such I sure was made. 

I have yeard His yoke was easy— 
For my mother taught me so— 

On His ways she oft did urge me— 
And she told me where to go— 

To find Him as my Saviour, 
While in the days of youth. 



84 



While to earth His sweet behaviour. 
Was seal 'd with faith and truth. 

For He knew that I was bom 
A slave to Satan's sway; 

Yet for me He bore the scorn 
And for me bled that day. 

I saw Him crowed with thorns 

And buffeted by men; 
Left fatherless and forlorn. 

To save my soul fron pain. 

I saw Him in the garden. 

And sweating drops of blood. 

All for me to gain a pardon, 
And lead my soul to God. 

To Calvary, then, I followed Him, 
And saw Him on the cross; 

He mingled there with sinful men. 
And bled for all his foes. 

A malefactor on each side 
For theft condemned to die; 

The one insulting Him in pride. 
The other thus did cry: 

Within Thy kingdon, mighty Lord, 

Have mercy upon me; 
You only have to speak the word. 

My soul shall then be free. 



85 



Sweet Jesus heard his flattering voice 

Anidst his agony 
This might, dear friend, in Paradise, 

You'll have a place v/ith me. 

And had sweet Jesus po^r like this. 
With pale death en his cheek? 

And shall v^ not his cross entrace, 
Axl strive his ways to seek? 

And can I seek Him as I ought. 

Or did I ever try? 
Should be the language of each thought. 

For fear the conscience die. 

For if the conscience die away 

Hiile Jesus does invite, 
In yonder great and dreadful day. 

To Him we'll have no right. 

But like to chaff before the wind. 
We'll fron his bar be driven, 

And through eternity consign 'd 
To mourn the loss of heaven. 

A loss v^ich nothing can repair 

That's on our earth below; 
And those who ransomed cro^s do wear. 

Refuse to pity show. 



86 



A PRESENTATION TO THE REV. GEO. BROW. 

Dear Reverend Sir, permit me thus 

A simple verse to write; 
Thro' ignorance I'm at a loss 

To use you as I might. 

My education has been short- 
ly precious time misspent— 

I ask forgiveness from the Lord— 
And loss of tine lament. 

I thank the Lord for sending such 
A friend of Calvary here; 

Within his heart he values much 
The precious Savious dear. 

He told us of the dying thief 

With Jesus on the tree; 
Although of sinners we are chief. 

We were not worse than he. 

He told, although upon His head 

A thorny crown he wore. 
The thief's request was not denied. 

Though never asked before. 

He asked fran whence the prayer arose 
That caight His trembling ear— 

If Peter brought to mind the crows 
That drew his bitter tear. 



87 



Or did the traitor Judas pray 

To Him he did betray. 
That he in Paradise that day 

His honour might display. 

Or did his tender mother pray. 

When she her son beheld. 
In agony upon the tree. 

Her peaceful harmless child. 

no! there was not one of those 
Had faith to raise a prayer— 

They all appeared to be His foes. 
Though He their sins did bear. 

But yet, v^ile hanging by His side— 

The thief condemned to die- 
Though he had Him before denied— 
Remember me— did cry. 

Nor did the sinner cry in vain,— 
The Saviour heard his voice. 

This night mine honour thou shalt share 
With me in Paradise. 



THE AUTUMN . 

'Twas on a pleasant auturm night. 
As homeward I did hie. 



88 



My vay ms strewed wi' clear moonlight. 
No clouds bedirmed the sky. 

I sat HE dov/i to take my ease 

Within a hallowed shade. 
The sparkling orbs shone through the trees. 

Whose blooming leaves did fade. 

They seened all life and full of bud. 

When in the month of June; 
Now auturm's tenpest— fierce and rude— 

Has robbed them of their bloan. 

I thought like them I soon must die- 
Then what will be my doon?— 

Will kindness from my Saviour try. 
And draw me safely hone? 

Or will He frown when I appear. 

And say— who sent for you? 
For me ye never shed a tear. 

My ways ye never knew. 

Within your heart I found no place. 

Though loudly I did knock; 
You daily spurned M/ offered grace; 

Ye did not know 1^ flock. 

My flxk is pure, and free from sin. 
My father gave then me; 

I'll welcone them this realm wi thin- 
Fran sorrow set then free. 



let us search our hearts and see 

If Jesus is our friend; 
For sure as autumn fades the tree. 
Our time on earth will end. 

The trees will fall before the storni; 

But hark the voice of spring. 
They'll then recall their blooming fomi. 

And flourish green again. 

But when I fall by death's strong hand. 
The spring's no more for me; 

1 cannot break the grave's strong band. 

Till Jesus set me free. 



ON Tit FATE OF fW. 

Man, in this weary stage of time. 
Must troubles hard endure. 

No peace of heart nor joy sublime. 
Attends the rich and poor. 

If to be rich a man is blest. 
His bosom heaves with care. 

For him there's no substantial rest. 
Though plenty be his share. 

If to be poor may be his lot. 
He thinks his labour hard. 

His precious health he values not. 

Sweet time does not regard. 

M 



90 



I ask—does happiness abound 

Where fame is all that's tried?— 

Who never asks if in their rocm. 
Sweet Jesus bled and died. 

I answer, no. He knows them not. 
When on Him they do cal 1 ; 

If all their time they have forgot. 
Till down by death they fall. 



THOUGHTS OF SUFFERII^ WOT 

Mien troubles hard did me assail. 

And want on every side 
Did whisper in the softest gale. 

And in the rolling tide. 

I saw the beauteous summer sun 
S^\^t nature's face adorn. 

The gentle breeze had just begun 
To wave the yellow com. 

I saw the earth, a moving mass 
Of objects, rich and free; 

But all filled up misfortune's glass. 
And poured it out to rre. 

I saw my life in rags appear— 

I hear my babies cry- 
While fron my cheek I wiped the tear 

That dimmed my wishful eye. 



91 



No friend appeared to take my part. 

Nor kind relations mourn; 
Though keenly-felt misfortune's dart 

Did in my boson bum. 

Deep called to deep, I seemed alone 

A monument to woe; 
I^ Q^Q^ hope was dead and gone. 

And in the dust laid low. 

Why to despondence give a place? 

Why yield to dark despair? 
Why is there not a throne of grace. 

And I a stranger there? 

While musing thus, before my quill 

Had yet begun to write, 
I heard a voice say, peace be still; 

All things shall be right. 

Hope's death you'll find is but a dream. 

He's not yet in the dust; 
There's virture in a Being supreme. 

Can all your wrongs adjust. 

Why, is it possible? I mused. 

Can I, even I, believe 
That offered mercy long abused. 

Does yet strive to forgive. 

And press upon the sinking mind. 
An open door of hope; 



92 



Whose every effort failed to find 
A friend to bear him up. 

It was not in the miry stank. 
Nor yet behind the plough. 

Now was it in the gentle rank. 
Nor in the miser's view. 

Nor can I tell from whence it rose. 

But I a friend did meet. 
Who seemed to share in all my woes. 

And bade me cease to weep. 

He said a worthier far than me 
Was under sorrow's shroud. 

Who never went an inch agee 
Fran virtue's golden road. 

So keep your heart fair to the hill. 

Whatever you betide; 
And never let your courage fail , 

But over tempests ride. 



7D MY LIBERAL SUBSCRIBERS. 

Tlie glocm of night has now begun 
To dusk the shady vail ; 

My rhymin' course is nearly run. 
And I must dry my quill. 



93 



But not before I thank the brave. 
The liberal, and the great— 

Whose liberal hands my head did save 
Fran sinking under fate. 

0, few can tell as I can do. 
The miseries of the poor. 

Whose wretched fate it is to bow 
Below the tyrant's power. 

I hate them not because they're men, 
I love them with my heart. 

Though often in their iron chain 
They've made my boson smart. 

Brave Scotia's sons I write to you. 
Who slavery's yoke would spurn. 

To only such I could bestow 
A grateful heart's return. 

But to the praise of not a few, 

f^ notes I did resume. 
My sinking heart they did renew. 

They pitied sore my docm. 

And my their hand a heart did prove. 
That's worthy of the name 

Of Scottish heroes far above 
The bond of slavery's chain. 

May fortune ever fan the fire. 
And all their crosses smother; 



94 



They did not leave me in the nrire, 
But owned me as a brother. 

They kindly took me by the hand. 
And wished m great success; 

They made me love my native land. 
They bade me try the press. 

And sane of them with hoary hairs. 
And wrinkles in their brow. 

Did also in my sorrow share. 
And bade me prosper too. 

I'll hail them with a heart of love. 
While life doth wami my breast. 

And ask for them a home above. 
When death bids weary rest. 

And if my lines do meet their wish. 
Instruction's gift to bear; 

I care not for the critic's lash. 
Nor yet the scoffer's sneer. 

I never once did try the pen 

In hopes to al 1 excel ; 
When back I look to noble men. 

Who rose and also fell. 

For men whose talents I adore, 
l^friose lines gave life to itb. 

By some are wafted o'er the shore. 
And plunged in the sea. 



95 



No more to meet the eye of man. 

Nor pen a hymn or song. 
Nor bring to mind the pain of him 

Who moulders in yon throng. 

And so let mine be buried deep. 

And never more be read; 
If any thing the eye may meet 

Endangers virtue's head. 

But if it meet the loud applause 
Of some well -thinking man. 

Who glories in pure virtues cause. 
May he its pages scan. 

I'll think my labour's not in vain, 

But boldly take the pen 
And write a verse or two again. 

Although my lines be plain. 

I cannot boast of talents great— 

For such was never mine- 
But love to men of low estate 
Is stamped on every line. 

And though my little volune lie 
Unread by rich and poor. 

And never meet a friendly eye 
While time ans space endure. 

It's wrote by one who hates deceit. 
And loves his country's will. 



96 

Would strive his brothers tears to wipe. 
And tyranny dispel. 

And dearly loves his brother dear. 

Who travels Scotland's isle. 
And writes his volure without fear. 

Because it has no guile. 

It speaks the truth— that makes it strong— 

Although its lines be poor; 
The thing that's right cannot be wrong— 

The taith makes all secure. 

But surely some will read my lines. 

And some will love them too. 
Though sote will hate then, and incline 

To hide them from their view. 

For never man did yet conpose 

A book that pleased all; 
So I must here draw to a close. 

And let it stand or fall. 

So fare-ye-well, my countrymen. 

Forgive imperfect strains. 
Though weak the hand that holds the pen. 

Your servant here remains. 

George Scroggle. 



